


Cover You

by foreverkneeld



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: (soft), Crossdressing, M/M, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29529300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverkneeld/pseuds/foreverkneeld
Summary: It's past time, in Hugh's opinion, that they took some damn shore leave.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Cover You

It’s a little tricky, deciding where to go for shore leave when everything familiar is two galaxies and a century away, but Saru, with the help of the Sphere Data in its current form of three helper bots, comes up with a list of planets within a shuttle’s journey of Federation HQ, in case there’s another galactic emergency only the Discovery and her crew can solve.

Rigel XI apparently has kept it’s reputation from the 23rd century of being a pleasure planet - and while it’s place in the Federation means that, at least nominally, all activities and businesses are fully licensed and legal, with all the appropriate unions and worker rights laws, it also means that there are any number of clubs and lounges where Hugh can easily buy what he needs for a few credits. 

His explanation of wanting to surprise his husband doesn’t hurt either - all the girls coo over that, and are plenty eager to offer assistance he is happy to accept, as out of practice as he is at this. He had comm’d Paul before he left Discovery, telling him if he didn’t finish work promptly at 1700 hours he was going to hypo him into submission and not in a fun way. Then he’d left him the coordinates for the club, and a reservation time.

By the time of their reservation, Paul is standing in the doorway to the club, dressed for once in something other than his Starfleet blues or even the softer Starfleet sleepwear. He’s in a fitted suit, complete with a collared shirt and silk tie, something that Hugh can sense Tilly’s thoughtful hand in, because left to himself Paul would have shown up in the same oversized sweater he’s had since secondary school and a pair of pants so worn they were nearly threadbare. The same thing he’s worn every shore leave since they were in the Academy. 

From his own vantage point in the curtains by the stage entrance, Hugh can see Paul being led to their table and offered a complimentary glass of Andorian ale. Paul declines and Hugh can see him pulling out his comm to ask Hugh where he is and probably to rag on him for being the one who’s late, for once. Sure enough, back in the pile of his discarded clothes, his comm beeps. He ignores it, smoothing down his hair one last time and running his hands down his hips before he pulls the curtain back. He had asked for a table near the stage for this, and it pays off. The other girls follow him out, and he can hear the immediate eruption from the club at large, whistles and whoops and calls for attention filling the space at once.

Hugh kneels at the edge of the stage, close enough to Paul to touch, and purrs, “Hey handsome. Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

“No thank you,” Paul says without looking up, “I don’t like Andorian liquor.”

Hugh rolls his eyes briefly. His Paul. “Nothing to drink? How about a little...company?”

“Thanks, but I’m waiting for my -” Paul, finally, looks up, and trails off, finishing faintly, “- husband.”

Hugh smiles slowly, knowing exactly how good this dark shade of lipstick looks on him. 

“Oh, wow.” Paul breathes, and his eyes are going dark in the way they do when Hugh has finally managed to pull his full attention away from whatever project he’s working on, and focused all that big brain on his husband. “Hugh - wow.” He reaches out, looking like he doesn’t quite realise he’s doing it, and Hugh smacks his hand away lightly. 

“Ah ah! No touching! Didn’t you read the rules at the door?” Hugh stands up, smoothing his hands down his skirt again. The term ‘skirt’ is a generous one - it barely covers the lace beneath it even when he’s standing up, and when he turns around and bends over, ‘adjusting’ his heels, there’s an audible intake of breath from behind him. “This is dinner and a show only, mister Starfleet.”

He twirls back around, tucking his hair behind an ear and batting his eyelashes at Paul. “I mean, I suppose...I could be...persuaded. I bet that fancy job of yours pays pretty well, huh?”

“Pretty well,” Paul echoes, mouth slack and hands gripping the sides of his chair so hard the knuckles are turning white.

“Well?” Hugh sits down on the stage, legs swinging over the side, and pouts at his husband. “Won’t you help me down?”

Paul stands up so fast his chair falls over sideways, hands out and hovering uncertainly. Hugh takes them and gently guides them to his waist. One of Paul’s thumbs rubs gently over the silk of the corset, and there’s still so much awe on his face as he carefully lifts Hugh down from the stage, gaze travelling from his carefully arranged wig and full face make-up to his sparkling earring cuff and low-cut corset and then lower still to the fishnets encasing his legs and four inch stiletto heels. Paul swallows hard. “I might - take that drink after all.”

Hugh crooks up one leg, curling it around Paul’s waist and hooking him closer. “Oh, I think we can arrange that.”

Hugh doesn’t necessarily  _ mean _ to keep Paul so worked up and on edge all night, but he’s only mortal, all right? Anyone would enjoy having such single-minded attention from their partner, especially while knowing they looked, if he could be pardoned the sin of pride, as damn good as he does right now. 

They rent one of the rooms available in the upstairs of the club and Paul spends a long time carefully taking the corset and stockings and underwear off of him, and longer still taking the rest of him to pieces. By the end, the carefully-applied make up is a mess and the wig is askew despite the many pins, but Hugh is so relaxed and fucked out he can’t bring himself to care. Paul, overachiever that he is, is still kissing his way down Hugh’s chest in a desultory sort of way.

Hugh rouses himself enough to push a hand into Paul’s hair, stroking through it gently. Paul responds by butting up into it like a cat would, humming contentedly. Hugh is contemplating the reality of...stickiness, and the eventual need for the fresher, when Paul lifts his head from Hugh’s chest and says, “I missed this. Us. What with all the world jumping and time travel and coming back from the dead and whatnot. I’m glad Saru found this planet. And that you found.” His gaze travels. “All this.”

Hugh laughs softly. “I’m glad too. It’s been too long since I’ve been able to do this. I’ve missed it.”

“Actually, I was going to ask you about that.” Paul says, propping himself up on an elbow and looking a little more attentive suddenly. “You know there’s - I mean, if you wanted to wear anything different on board - No one would care. Or if they did - you know we would all have your back.”

“I know you would,  _ amado _ .” Hugh smoothes the pale hair he’s ruffled up back down into neatness, petting the fine strands at the base of Paul’s neck. “Honestly, I just haven’t had time to think about it much, between - well, all the things you mentioned. And before that, under Lorca - original or Terran, discretion seemed the better part of valor. But perhaps. Well, perhaps now that things are settled, or as settled as they’re likely to ever get with Discovery.”

Paul puts his head back down, planting a kiss on Hugh’s sternum and muttering “Fuck Lorca.”

“Fuck Lorca indeed.” Hugh says, amused. “Or, if you feel up to it, you could fuck me.”

Paul responds to that with the alacrity of a man who had been teased for four hours straight before being allowed to go somewhere private with his husband.

The next day, both of them clean and presentable once again and with a few hundred credits deposited in the various accounts of the club’s girls, they shuttle back to Discovery. Adira, who has been sightseeing with Michael and Booker on Uoron V, eyes the marks on both of their necks with badly-concealed glee and says something to Grey that Hugh is glad he can’t hear. Youths.

Hugh changes back into his medical whites, and Paul back into his science blues, and before they leave their quarters for their respective shifts, Paul pauses in the door, glancing back at Hugh and opening his mouth and then he closes it, smiling and shaking his head. “Have a good day, dear Doctor.”

Hugh starts to follow and then stops. “Computer,” he says, “Starfleet issue uniform, 21SK.” There’s a chime, and the requested clothes slide into the slot. Hugh looks at them for a long moment, and then moves to pick them up.

It’s strange, wearing the uniform skirt and tights after so long in just the slacks, but he’d forgotten how much he enjoys the swish of it and the fit of the waist - and the fact that the tights highlight his (excellent, if he says so himself) legs is an added bonus. 

Tilly beams at him when she passes him in the hall and whispers, “I love that on you!” and Adira smiles when they see him in the mess hall, reaching with a shy hand to touch the extra embroidery on the top and saying, “This is so pretty.” Lt. Rhys gives him a nod and a little salute, his freshly-painted nails neat and shiny against the blue of his uniform. Detmer and Owosekun are holding hands across a mess hall table, and they both look up at him and smile when he comes in.

Best of all, though, is Paul, who is predictably late to mess, but his eyes find Hugh’s at once when he arrives, and the warmth in them is so great that Hugh understands why Adira, beside him, mutters, “Aaand we’re out,” and makes a bee-line for Tilly’s table.

“You look beautiful,” Paul says, soft, eyes holding Hugh even as he reaches to hold Hugh’s hands. “I’m so glad you changed.”

“Me too.” Hugh closes his eyes, welcoming Paul’s kiss, and stays leaning into him, thankful for the bulk of his warmth. “It’s been a little harder than I remembered in some ways, but in others...easier. I think - I think tomorrow I might replicate that earring cuff.”

“A genius idea.” Paul leans in for another kiss. “And I should know.”

Hugh huffs softly. “Well. Maybe you can put that genius brain to work figuring out what you want to eat, then. Dinner won’t replicate itself.”

“Technically -” Paul starts, and Hugh cuts him off with a gentle shove towards the replicators. 

“Enough technically. ‘Technically’ butters no parsnips, and I’m craving some. Be a good husband and get them for me, won’t you?”

“My queen’s wish,” Paul says, with a bow that seems only half ironic, “is my command.”

**Author's Note:**

> YES the title is from rent YES i cannot get the image of Wilson Cruz as Angel out of my head you're...welcome?


End file.
